Migraine
by ArtisticRainey
Summary: ajacks99 sent me this prompt: "One of the bros dealing with a migraine (either on or off mission) and not wanting everyone else to find out about it, but of course they do." It was also inspired by the terrible migraine I had yesterday...


"You are not staying up there," I said.

"Nurrrrrgh."

Well, that settled it. So it really wasn't necessary for John to barf down the front of his uniform. But barf he did, and I got it all in full holographic glory. Gross. If there's one thing Scott Tracy doesn't do, it's vomit. I just _cannot_. John is always the one who deals with barf, snapping on his marigolds like gauntlets, clutching the mop like a sword. Unfortunately, this time he was the one doing the barfing - and was in no condition to clean up the mess.

I clutched my chin. _Maybe not, but I wonder if I can get someone else to?_

"EOS," I said.

"Yes, Scott?"

I tried not to shudder. John had assured me that the AI was no longer murderous. Call me paranoid, but it had taken me more than a little while to come to terms with it living on the station. But now, perhaps, she could save me a job.

"Are you able to, uh, deal with the mess?" I asked.

"Yes, Scott," she said in that sickly voice. "I will deploy a cleaning droid straight away. But I am afraid I cannot do much for John's attire. I am unable to undress him. I could perhaps use the mooring claw -"

"No, no! Leave that to me, EOS," I said, my chest tightening at the image of my brother being ripped, limb from limb. "Keep monitoring the airwaves and route control to the mobile station." I returned my attention to the woeful face of my ailing brother. "John, if you get yourself to the elevator, EOS will bring you down."

"But-"

"No ifs, no buts, no coconuts!" I said, channelling every memory of Dad I could muster. "You have a migraine. You are covered in barf. You are _coming home_."

"...nurgh..."

"Exactly," I said, folding my arms. "EOS, how long have his pain receptors been activated?"

I had found I got the best results from the AI by talking technical with her - 'robot speak' as Gordon would have said.

"Pain receptions in the head and neck have been active for four hours, twenty-seven minutes and thirty-one seconds," EOS said. "Nausea levels have increased steadily for the last hour."

"And as usual, John didn't tell anyone," I said, shaking my head.

I had half a mind to get Brains to install a tattletale function in the AI's program. I ran a hand through my hair. John muttered something about being fine. I groaned.

"John, get your butt into that elevator, or so help me!"

"If he does not move, I will move him," EOS said, her tone pleasant. "I can stop the gravity ring and -"

"No...EOS..." John said. "I'm going..."

I deactivated John's hologram. The line to EOS was still open, though.

"That is the wrong way, John," she said. "It would be more efficient if you travelled in a counter-clockwise direction."

Out of respect for his piteous state, I tried not to laugh out loud. I failed miserably.

 **~oOo~**

Six hours later, Grandma was manning the desk. She had sent Virgil, Kayo and Gordon to an avalanche in Nepal. Grandma had offered to care for John but her eyes kept flicking to the desk. She loved to get her hands on the dispatch controls and I suspected that she felt more part of things when she was sitting there. It probably had something to do with feeling closer to Dad, too.

Shaking the feeling of sorrow away, I headed back to check on the space case. With much cringing, I had peeled him out of his gross suit and deposited him into bed. I made him gulp down some of his migraine meds, pulled down all the sunshades and left a glass of water by the bed - and a basin, just in case.

Ah, the famous basin. Depository of three generations of Tracy vomit. It was round, yellow, and incredibly gross. It lived under the kitchen sink like a little troll, only coming out to do the dirty work no one else wanted. I shuddered. So much barf over so many years…

As my stomach rolled a little, I resolved to stop thinking about it.

The room was still dark. There was no movement from the bed. With slow steps, I crept across the hardwood floor.

"John?" I asked, keeping my voice low. "You still alive?

The sheets rustled and the top of a copper head appeared.

"John Tracy is gone," he said. "Dead and buried. Never to return."

He was always a bit of a drama queen, our John.

I sat on the edge of the bed, nose wrinkling at the stale smell of vomit - though thankfully, my brother's stomach seemed to have settled and the basin was empty.

"You should have told me sooner," I said, resting a hand on his bony shoulder.

"Started during the Alps mission," he said, voice muffled by the comforter. "You were busy. And I needed to do my job..."

I rolled my eyes, squeezing his shoulder again.

"Your job is not to torture yourself with pain," I said. "Believe me, if I was sick, I wouldn't be out in the field."

John snorted.

"Oh yeah?"

I cringed. Oops. Now I was in for it.

"What about the time in London when you were barfing every three minutes? Or the time in the Ivory Coast when you had suspected chicken pox? Or-"

"Alright, already," I said, holding my hands up in defeat, though he couldn't see the gesture. "I get your point. But still."

John popped his face over the edge of the blankets and, in a most un-John-like fashion, stuck his tongue out at me.

"Hey!" I said. "Have some respect for your elders."

"Only when you have some respect for the dead," he replied.

"Who's dead?"

Neither of us had heard the bedroom door open. Alan bounded over like a puppy.

"I am," John said, his head back under the covers. "Dead as a dodo. In lieu of flowers, please send donations to the Orphaned AI Welfare Society."

Alan shot me a wicked grin and I tried to suppress my laughter.

"I know what'll make you feel better," he said.

At the sound of the mischief in his tone, John's eyes popped up over the hem of the blanket.

"Oh no," he said.

Alan took a deep breath. John looked at me with pleading eyes. I shrugged.

And then my littlest brother had launched himself into the air, landing squarely on his big brother's chest. As he wrapped his stick-thin arms around the writhing figure in the bed, John groaned.

"Alan, please," he said, his voice strained as his lungs were compressed by a littlest Tracy hug. "No physical contact is necessary. Hugs are not curative!"

Laughter burst out of my mouth and I doubled over at the combination of rage and terror in John's voice. But Alan just kept on squeezing.


End file.
